guidance to handle this situation without emotion or prejudice. “Do you have any followers yet?”
When she didn’t reply immediately, he glanced up. She was eyeing him with a guarded expression. “Don’t you mean patients?”
“I do mean patients,” he answered firmly.
“Yes, I do.”
He held the pencil at the ready.
Any previous warmth had fled her gold-flecked eyes. “I sense your hesitation to shed a positive light on this subject.”
“It’s my job to report the news impartially, Miss Boyd.”
“If you can’t call me Marlys, it’s Dr. Boyd. I don’t expect you to endorse my practice. Your concern is not unfounded—you haven’t seen the effectiveness of this type of medical practice firsthand. A lot of people don’t understand the benefits, but education is power. I can educate them.”
“You’re not wrong. I am definitely interested in an article. Maybe more than one. It could give you a chance to share information. I’ll choose language carefully to inform readers without insulting Doc Fletcher’s practice.”
“That sounds fair. It’s not my intention to insult anyone. I’m more interested in education and advanced medicine.”
He asked her several more questions, and she supplied answers.
“What was your first impression of Cowboy Creek?” he asked.
She thought a moment. “The town is laid out efficiently. I had no problem finding my property or locating help to work on my building. The stores are more than adequate, and the boardinghouse is sufficient for my needs until my quarters are ready. I’ve spent all my time and energy on my office and supplies.”
“What about people? Have you made friends?”
She flushed a little, which made Sam frown. Had people been unkind to her? He could understand if the townsfolk preferred to continue going to Doc Fletcher rather than trying something new, but that was no excuse for rudeness. She seemed to be struggling for an answer, so he hastened to say, “It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable. You spoke of locations and not of the people. I was attempting to interest the readers who like to hear about their friendly town.”
Her posture relaxed, and she faced him. “A lot has happened since we were last...together,” she said. “You know me well enough to know I’m socially awkward. I’m no good at inconsequential chatter—which can make it hard for me to make friends in a new town.”
“You’re good with patients, I assume.”
“I try to be.” She stood. “And now, I really should go.” She took her coat from a hook, and he stepped to hold it as she slid her arms into the sleeves. Her shiny waves didn’t touch the collar. She turned and faced him. He didn’t back up, so only two feet separated them.
He never had the slightest idea what she was thinking behind those golden-flecked eyes, one of the things that had intrigued him from the first. He’d never been certain if she’d broken his heart or injured his pride.
“I read some of your articles during the war,” she said. “You were in Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, Maine?”
“And Virginia, too. I pretty much saw it all.”
“And your parents? How did they fare?”
“My father died shortly after I enlisted. Mother is well. She’s currently traveling abroad. And your father?”
She absorbed the information. “My father is alive.”
Her lack of further information spoke volumes. “He disapproved of your aspirations.”
“Along with everyone else.”
Did she mean him? “I suppose that was a strain on your relationship.”
“We no longer have a relationship.”
“I’m sorry.”
She turned to watch Pete edge the letters of Sam’s name with a neat gold line, giving him a moment to study her profile. She looked less girlish, of course, but even though she wore no jewelry and her hair lacked sophistication, she was as lovely as he remembered. She still fascinated him, but he’d learned the hard way she wasn’t carved out to be a wife. Even if she’d changed her mind about that—which he doubted—he’d know better than to trust her with his heart again.
Her gaze wavered, and she lifted her brows in curiosity, drawing his attention to the door where Hannah Johnson and a shivering August peered in. Pete stepped back to allow them entrance, and Sam’s eight-year-old son shuffled in ahead of their neighbor, Hannah, ushering in a gust of cold air.
“How was your day at school?” Sam said as they approached.
August glanced uncertainly at Marlys and then up at his father. “Fine. Mrs. Johnson made a pie for our supper. She let me help.”
Sam knelt and awkwardly touched August’s cold cheek. The child smelled like fresh air, chalk dust and flour. Things had been strained between them ever since he’d returned to his mother’s home at the end of the war. Thanks to his years in the Army, they’d spent too long apart—too many years he’d missed getting to know his son. He believed bringing August here where they could start a new life together would be the answer to bringing them closer. The boy had never known his mother, and his grandmother had been his caregiver until a few months ago. Sam’s mother deserved the opportunity to travel and see friends. And Sam needed time with his son to re-create and repair their relationship. But the relationship was slow to heal. August was reserved and withheld feelings and affection. Sam’s heart ached at the chasm of years and uncertainly between them.
“Dr. Boyd!” Hannah said, drawing his attention back to Marlys. “It’s nice to see you.”
Sam straightened. Hannah was a seamstress with her own dress shop, so it wasn’t unusual that Marlys would already have met her during her initial weeks in town.
“Mrs. Johnson,” Marlys acknowledged, but her attention was on August.
“Hannah, please.” The other woman glanced at Sam and handed him a covered pie. “My husband came home to be with the baby, and I thought a brisk walk would do me well, so I accompanied August.”
“Thank you. And thank you for getting him after school and keeping him for a time.”
“My pleasure,” she assured him. “I need to stop by the mercantile before heading home, so I’ll take my leave.” She nodded at Marlys and departed.
“August, this is Dr. Boyd,” Sam said. “Dr. Boyd, this is my son, August.”
August politely removed his wool stocking cap, and his dark hair stood up in disheveled curls. “How do, ma’am.”
The boy child’s shy expression was enchanting. He had shiny black hair and thick lashes like his father. Who was his mother? If things had gone differently, Sam’s son might have been her child. Nearly a decade had passed since she and Sam had been engaged. He had wanted a family. Of course he had married.
What kind of woman had Sam chosen? Surely someone with all the admirable feminine qualities Marlys’s father wanted her to possess. Someone focused on a marriage and not schooling and a career.
Marlys remembered meeting her father’s colleagues as a child, recalled her self-conscious feelings of inadequacy and the discomfort of being stared at. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, August. How old are you?”
“Eight, ma’am.”
“Do you enjoy school?”
“Yes, very much. Miss Aldridge lets me bring home her very own books. I’m